Beautiful Dreamer
by Gloriana Femina
Summary: Christine loses everything and leaves France to join the Girys in America. Madame has become a marriage broker, but she's had a difficult time making a match for a reclusive composer. Erik is finally ready to give up on ever finding a wife, but Christine sends him a letter that changes his mind. E/C, 19th century AU. Slow-burn. Rating will go up to M, but there will be warnings.
1. Prologue

Prologue

 _April 1871_

Christine's ears were full of the clattering of carriage wheels on cobblestones and the heavy sound of horse hoofs stomping through the streets. Her nose wrinkled at the inescapable smell of burning wood, and the acidic taste of bile filled her mouth. As they lurched along, she grasped the padded seat so tightly her knuckles were surely turning white.

For better or for worse, the only sense she seemed to lack was sight. The curtains were pulled shut, ensuring that no light entered the carriage. But the streets were dark at this time of night, and no one had bothered lighting the streetlamps for more than a week. The curtains weren't closed to prevent her from seeing, but to prevent her from being seen.

Noise, the smell of smoke, and utter confusion had reigned supreme in Paris for several days and nights. There was talk of shootings and executions, of captured prisoners and cannons, demonstrations and uprisings.

Everyone was reminded of the siege of Paris the year before, when they had been surrounded by Germans. At least then there had been relative peace within the city. But now Paris was tearing itself apart from the inside out.

Christine wasn't entirely sure what had caused this madness, in the first place. Her head was full of music and art, and she had never felt there was room for politics. Such matters seemed distant from opera and ballet. Christine had always believed that politics were earthy and harsh, sneaky and dishonest. She was focused on beautiful, ethereal pursuits. She took St. Paul's advice to the Philippians to think on things that are pure and lovely.

She had heard arguments back stage about who should wield power in France – Napoleon III or a republican government. Before the fighting broke out, it had never occurred to Christine to consider the matter herself. She couldn't possibly say if she was republican or an imperialist. The important question to her was – who would keep the theatres open, the Republic or the Empire?

At the moment, the theatres were closed as management tried to navigate the politics of the day, a pursuit for which they were particularly ill-suited. Madame Giry had told her that they were trying "to play both sides," but Madame had not seemed optimistic that they would succeed.

These political arguments had recently turned into violent action. With the theatres closed for the foreseeable future, Christine and her guardian, Mamma Valerus, were being driven away from their little flat near the Salle le Peletier, and from Christine's burgeoning career at the Opéra National de Paris.

The carriage hit a bump, jolting Christine out of her reflections and causing Mamma Valerius to grab her arm. Christine could just make out that the bumpy ride had left Mamma Valerius' black lace widow's cap askew on her wispy hair. Christine couldn't imagine what her own brown curls – a bit wild even on a good day – must look like right now.

The good, selfless widow had been terrified for Christine's safety for months as peace in Paris grew less and less certain. Mamma Valerius would have gladly left the city as soon as the siege was over months ago, but they had Christine's singing career to consider. It had always been her Papa's fondest wish that she become a great singer, and it had been the only future Christine had ever wished for. Christine gloomily ruminated on the impossibility of becoming a world-famous diva in the countryside.

But with the Opera closed, there was nothing to keep them there. A retreat would do Mamma Valerius good, Christine thought. When they were offered the chance to get out of Paris, what else were they to do? Besides, it wasn't as if this was the first time she and Mamma Valerius had left everything they knew behind.

They had sold what they could, packed a few essentials, and then abandoned anything else. After dark, they had crept out the back way of their little flat and had gone down a side street to meet a discreet carriage driven by a man whose face was totally obscured by a scarf and a wide-brimmed hat. They had kept to alleyways with little traffic. They were traveling too quickly to do so quietly, but they intended to be far away from Paris before daybreak.

There was only one place they could go – only one place that made any sense to them. Perros-Guirec, their seaside refuge. Perhaps they would be able to stay in the little cottage where she and her father had stayed all those summers ago.

It might be good for them to relive those pleasant memories – back when her father had sighed with contentment at blue skies over the sea.

 **xXx**

The carriage finally stopped at dawn, and the sudden stillness woke Christine from an exhausted, dreamless sleep. The dimly lit carriage was suddenly illuminated by the rising sun as their driver opened the carriage door. He climbed right in, as if he were their social equal – a ridiculous notion, for he was, of course, far above them.

The driver pulled off his thick scarf and hat, revealing the unkempt blond hair, mild green eyes, patrician nose, and strong jawline of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.

"Oh, Monsieur le Vicomte," Mamma Valerius cried, "are we safe at last?"

"As safe as two women traveling alone could possibly be," he said with a frown. "I wish you would let me accompany you the rest of the way."

Mamma Valerius shook her gray head and declared, "We couldn't accept, my dear boy. You must return to Paris as soon as you can and get your mother and sisters out. These republicans are no more a friend to your station than the bloodthirsty villains who wielded Madame Guillotine!"

"I don't think Paris will sink quite that low again," Raoul assured her, "but I will feel much more at ease when my family is removed."

"You must visit us as soon as you can," Mamma Valerius said, clasping his hands in hers and casting a beatific smile on him that lit up her heavily-lined face. "You have been our savior, monsieur. We couldn't have fled this awful trouble without your assistance. We shan't forget it, Christine and I."

Here she threw Christine a knowing look that made her blush. Mamma Valerius was such a romantic at heart! She was, no doubt, convinced that unequal status and wealth were small obstacles to two young people.

Raoul couldn't quite meet either woman's eye as he pulled out his wallet. Raoul handed the wallet over to Mamma Valerius and told her that this should help them arrange carriages and inns all along their route. It was a generous sum – far more than they needed to travel another couple of days. Mamma Valerius tried to return half of it to him, but he flatly refused.

"You will need it to set yourselves up in Perros," he told them firmly. "My family has always supported the arts. Think of this as a commission – for the finest soprano in Paris to take a safe, relaxing holiday by the sea. Once this madness is over, you will return to the city and give a private concert in our townhouse, just for us. Now, you must be tired. Sleep in a carriage is hardly any sleep at all. We're parked at an inn, which will do very well for you until tomorrow. Five miles down the road, there is a station where you can board a train that will take you a considerable way towards Perros."

"Aren't you going to stay and rest, monsieur," Mamma Valerius asked with astonishment. "You've been driving all night."

"No, I'll be fine," Raoul assured her. "I must get back as soon as I can, or my brother will worry."

He opened the carriage door again and helped both women down the steps. He unloaded their trunks, chattering the whole time about what a wonderful time they would all have once his family returned to their estate near Perros. He would come to call on them as soon as he arrived, and he would invite them to tea at the chateau.

Christine didn't bother pointing out that his mother, the Dowager Comtesse, his brother, the Comte, nor his sisters – a marquise and a baronne – would likely never allow two women like Mamma Valerius and herself to darken the front door of their chateau. She rather liked the unaffected scene he laid out for them, and she didn't want to spoil it.

Once they had secured a room for the night, and he had taken their up their trunks, it was time to part. Raoul embraced them both warmly and held Christine's hand for just a little longer than was proper as he said, "I will be a happy man the next time I meet you by the sea, Little Lotte."

"We will keep a chair by the fire for you," Christine promised, blushing again as she looked into his green eyes and warm, open face. "And I'll be sure to ask everyone there for a story, so I will have many things to tell you when we see each other again."

As Christine and Mamma Valerius laid down to rest in their lodging, she heard her guardian humming Mendelsohn's "Wedding March." Christine shook her head in amusement as pleasant dreams overtook her.

 _ **A/N: I know the real Paris Commune of the 1871 only lasted a couple of months. However, in this alternate universe, it lasts much longer, and has a more devasting impact on the city. It won't be quite as bad as the Reign of Terror, as Mamma Valerius fears, but it's bad enough that Christine will not be returning to the Paris Opera anytime soon.**_


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 _18 February 1872_

 _Dearest Christine,_

 _Meg and I were so sorry to hear about the loss of your guardian, Fru Valerius. She was such a sweet woman, and we know how much she meant to you. You have our heartfelt condolences._

 _I understand that your life in Perros-Guirec could not have been easy these last few months. I can't imagine how you are making ends meet. I apologize if I am being too forward, but as a former student of mine, the close friend of my daughter, and almost a daughter to me, as well, you are always in my thoughts. I am deeply concerned for you, now that you are all alone in France._

 _Has there been any word about your missing friend, the Vicomte de Chagny? I have been in contact with La Sorelli. She has returned to Milan. She has heard nothing about his brother, which surprises me. We all know that she and Monsieur le Comte were close._

 _Christine, my dear, I want you to know that if you need a fresh start, you need only say the word, and we will welcome you here with open arms. America is a strange place, but Frenchwomen like Meg and myself are nothing, if not adaptable. As you know, Meg and I both have positions at a theatre – not in ballet, of course, since America is still quite uncouth – but there are many opportunities here in New York City. I can promise you a place here as a seamstress. I have vouched for the quality of your stiches._

 _You could, of course, stay with us in our flat. There is room for one more in Meg's bedroom. Our home would be your home. Our meals would be your meals. Our new friends would be your friends. It may not be Paris, but all of this awaits you in America._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Antoinette Giry_

 **xXx**

 _20 February 1872_

 _Mademoiselle Daaé,_

 _This an official notice of eviction. You are hereby notified that you currently owe sixty francs in past due rent. You must pay the full amount that is stated in this notice within the next five days. If you fail to make full payment of the amount due, your right to possession of the property will be terminated, and eviction proceedings against you will begin immediately. Only full payment of the amount owed will prevent the termination of your lease._

 **xXx**

The late winter snow crunched under her black boots as Christine shifted her weight from side to side. Her frozen fingers clutched at her hood, holding it in place as a seaside breeze whipped around her, slicing into her exposed cheeks like a cat-a-nine-tails. She read the names carved into three stone crosses grouped together in the cemetery, two eroded away by wind and rain, and the third fresh and new.

Christine thought of another headstone far away in another country.

When Christine was six years old, a couple of years before she had arrived in France, her mother, Astrid Daaé – lively and full of laughter – had been the first to go, at the age of twenty-nine. Cholera.

Grief had sent her poor, beloved father into a tailspin. After the funeral, he didn't return to his job in Upsala. He didn't even put in a notice. He just didn't go back to work. Instead, he took her traveling, earning their keep with his bow and her voice. They were nomads, not unlike the Romani, who they frequently met on the road.

Christine dimly remembered an aunt, though she couldn't remember which side of her family this aunt was from, or what her name was – just her green eyes, blonde braids, and kind smile. She hadn't thought much about her family in Sweden while growing up in France, but she had wondered about them often since moving back to the coast with Mamma Valerius.

She had no idea if they'd known ahead of time that he planned to take her on the road, or if they objected to it. If they had, would she be in Upsala right now?

The aloof Professor Valerius, her father's eventual patron, had died five years after they relocated to France. Apoplexy. The sad, but strangely whimsical Charles Daaé was next, when Christine was sixteen. Consumption.

Finally, at the age of seventy-two, Mamma Valerius, Christine's sole guardian of the last six years, had been laid to rest beside her husband and her friend. She had died from want – want of food, want of warmth, want of the assurance that she would ever see Raoul, their benefactor, again. Perhaps want of a husband she, as a dedicated woman of faith, firmly believed she would see on the other side.

Christine shivered and pulled her threadbare black cloak tighter around her.

Her time in France had been lean, to say the least. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt properly full. Money had been tight back when she and her father had shared a small flat with the Valeriuses. Researching folk music hardly guaranteed riches, and her father's violin only brought in so much. She had always done her part in singing for their supper, of course. Mamma Valerius had taken in washing and mending to help make ends meet. Christine had helped with the sewing. But their combined income couldn't provide much more than a roof, four walls, and two square meals a day for everyone. As first the professor, and then her father, passed away, their income had shrunk, and so had their roof, the space between their walls, and their meals.

As the wind whistled through the windows of the nearby chapel, Christine remembered joining the _conservatoire_. She had padded down the halls to her class' music room with hopes that one day, she would be a celebrated diva. She dreamed of the day that the power of her voice would reflect the transcendence of her soul. She also dreamed of the day she would have so much to eat that she grew quite round, like so many divas.

Christine had worked hard, earning a place in the chorus. She knew she wasn't ready to be a plump prima donna, but she was steadily improving.

And then Paris had changed.

They had never moved back, no matter how Christine had pleaded and cajoled. The boring little coastal town had once seemed a charming and charmed place in her youth when Papa Daaé had told her dark Northern stories quite unlike the fairy tales French children learned. Now, far away from the lights of Paris, far from the stage, far from music and friends, with no violin to mimic the music of the fossegrim, it seemed like a prison.

Not that there was much left for them in Paris. The damage, both physical and financial, done to the artistic community during the unrest meant little work for a singer. The Communards, it appeared, did not care for art. So, she supposed she was an imperialist, after all. Whatever that meant.

La Carlotta had returned to Spain; Monsieur Reyer had found work in Austria; the managers – appointees of the fallen regime – had fled to Germany. Even Meg and Madame Giry – that stalwart fixture at the Paris Opera – had left France with no plans to return. The de Chagny family, once notable and wealthy patrons of the arts, were all missing. They had disappeared en route to their chateau two days after they had parted. Raoul, her dear childhood friend and recent savior, was presumed dead. A victim of the Communards.

Christine turned her back on the little crosses as she headed in the direction of the chapel. The sky was rapidly darkening, and a light glowed in the window. She pushed the creaky wooden door open and stepped inside, out of the wind. She stomped her chilled feet as she made her way down the righthand aisle. A corner of the chapel glowed in the light of candles parishioners burned in memory of their loved ones. She sank down into the pew, close to the fiery tributes.

Christine pulled two crumpled pieces of paper out of her carpet bag and skimmed them again.

" _Meg and I were so sorry to hear…heartfelt condolences…any word about your missing friend, the Vicomte…if you need a fresh start…there are many opportunities here…a place as a seamstress…Our home would be your home…America."_

" _Eviction…owe sixty francs…five days…termination of your lease."_

Christine folded both letters again and stuffed them back into her bag with a sigh. She stared into the flame of one of the candles as she considered her options.

She and Mamma Valerius hadn't brought much with them from Paris, and they had made few purchases since, but once again Christine sold everything she could to pay for a modest burial. This morning, Christine had been caught by the local tavern owner while sorting through his trash, trying to find something to eat. She had vacated their flat, in case the owner tried to take what little she had left in her light carpet bag.

She still had a little money – enough to pay her past due rent. But next month would be a problem. She and Mamma Valerius had done odd jobs to survive – washing, mending, cleaning other peoples' homes. Christine was known to sing at the tavern once in a while for a few coins – the old songs her father had taught her, not the arias and art songs she had studied in the _conservatoire_. She didn't see how she would get by on her own like this.

Paris was a few days away by train, but absolutely nothing awaited her there. There was no work in Paris of any kind, let alone anything she was fit for. The opera companies of Europe had already been flooded by other artistic refugees from Paris, and she had no real connections to help her find a place. She had friends who offered her shelter and a position, but they were across the ocean, practically on the other side of the world. Perros, the only part of France her father had cherished, had nothing but memories, the dead, and a drafty chapel. It seemed her choice was clear.

She reckoned that she had just enough money to book a train to La Rochelle and a steerage-class ticket to the New World. She'd have almost nothing but the clothes on her back when she arrived, but she supposed that wasn't so unusual for America.

Christine hugged herself closer as she tried to find a more comfortable position on the hard pew. She would say her goodbyes to the crosses in the morning, and then she would get passage out of Perros, out of France, out of Europe…out of civilization, for all she knew.

 **xXx**

For perhaps the five-hundredth time, Christine gratefully reflected on the Scandinavian ancestry that ensured her stomach remained strong on the sea. If her forefathers and foremothers hadn't spent their days aboard ship, she would have had an even worse voyage.

She had been lucky today, managing to get a spot on one of the long bunks that served steerage passengers as a communal bed. She was sandwiched between two middle-aged women, one German and the other Italian.

Christine had learned early on that she needed to keep as many other women around her as possible. She had initially been shy about forcing her company on people, especially when they didn't speak a common language. However, all shyness was abandoned on her third day aboard when a man had tried to grab her – she didn't even want to think about what his purpose might have been. Two stout Russian ladies had pulled her towards them and walked her to the other side of steerage, telling her in broken French that "together better, must watch."

She had taken the lesson to heart. A crowd of women was good. A lone man was trouble. A crowd of men could spell disaster.

Christine was no longer sure how long she had been traveling on this wretched, dripping, smelly vessel. Surely, it had been weeks, maybe months. She hadn't been on deck in so long, she had no idea what kind of weather caused the constant rocking motion that left so many of her fellow passengers ill. With the loss of sunlight, she had lost all sense of night and day, of the difference between one week and the next. She simply slept when she was tired, which was often, and ate whenever their meals were served, which she didn't believe occurred on a consistent schedule. She had no reliable way to mark the passage of time, which meant that she didn't know how much longer she would have to remain on this ship before reaching her destination.

Meanwhile, Christine passed the time by dreaming of sitting in a clean, quiet, motionless room all by herself. Perhaps, she would read a book, or write a letter to Meg. The room would smell faintly of lavender and would have a window looking out onto a garden with rose bushes and lilies. The room would be painted bright blue or yellow – not a dreary color in sight. She would calmly sip hot chamomile tea and nibble on a dainty scone.

When she could no longer ignore the pains in her stomach or the dizziness from lack of food, she fantasized about a hot, solid meal, rather than cold gruel. Mamma Valerius' meatballs, new potatoes, dumplings. What would she eat in America? She would likely take her meals with the Girys, which meant French cuisine. Croissants, duck confit, bisque…tea every morning, red wine at supper. What had Meg told her about in a letter once? Lemonade? Christine was most assuredly looking forward to lemonade.

She knew a smattering of Spanish, Italian, and German, since she had sung in those languages before, and she had learned all sorts of new words since she'd boarded, though not all of them were polite. A nice English woman had started an impromptu school to teach her language to anyone interested enough to gather around her. There was even a Swedish couple on board, who had laughed loudly when she spoke to them in her mother tongue. Apparently, her accent had grown quite French in the last decade or so. Somehow, speaking and hearing the language of her ancestors made her feel more out-of-place than anything else.

Christine tried to ignore the sound of hundreds of conversations being carried out in a dozen languages. She hugged her nearly empty carpet bag, using it as a pillow as she dozed off.

 **xXx**

Christine was astonished when she awoke to discover the steerage section in an uproar of activity. People were rushing about, grabbing whatever belongings they could claim, as a man who appeared to be a sailor pushed through the crowd, shouting in English.

Christine's English was mediocre on a good day, but she gathered that land was in sight, and they were supposed to prepare to dock. The rest was a bit of a blur, since she was still groggy, and he was speaking quickly.

A Frenchwoman beside her seemed to realize Christine's predicament because she tapped Christine on the shoulder and clarified, "He says we'll dock in an hour or so, but we're to wait here below until the first- and second-class passengers are off. You might as well keep your seat; it'll be a while yet before we get to see some sky."

"The sky," Christine whispered in relief. She raked a hand through her dirty, stringy brown curls and smiled. It was her first smile since Mamma Valerius had died.

"Don't get your hopes too high, dear," the Frenchwoman warned her. "When we get off the boat, we have to go to the holding center at Castle Clinton."

"Holding center," Christine questioned, smile gone, and brow creased with anxiety.

"Where they decide if we get to stay, or if they're going to send us back," she answered simply.

"I never imagined I'd have to go back," Christine blurted in a rush. "I spent my last franc to get here."

"Do you have someone to stay with, or a job to go to," the woman asked gently.

"Yes, yes, I do," Christine nodded quickly. "Two friends who live there now, and they have a job for me."

The kind woman patted her on the arm and gave her a reassuring smile. "You'll be just fine, then, dear. A pretty, healthy girl, like you, with friends and a way to earn an honest living…you shouldn't have anything to worry about. They just want to make sure we women aren't on our own with no way to survive, other than our oldest profession."

"Oldest profession," Christine asked, head cocked a little to the side in her confusion.

"You know, dear," the woman said a little more quietly. "Walking the streets, looking for gentleman friends."

Christine's hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp. No, she had most certainly not considered that as an option! She was suddenly mortified to think that anyone would assume _that_ was her intention. Of course, many narrow-minded Parisians hadn't thought opera singers or ballet dancers were anything else.

Perhaps, New York City wouldn't be so different after all.

 **xXx**

Christine had waited weeks on that ship. After they'd docked, she'd waited hours to get off. She'd waited hours to be questioned by the immigration officials. Thank God, she'd known a little English, and thanks to that Frenchwoman's warnings, she had understood most of their questions.

 _Yes, she had family friends, Madame Giry and her daughter, who had offered her a place to stay. They lived in a boarding house in Lower Manhattan._

 _Yes, Madame and her daughter, Meg, worked at the Bowery Theatre, not far from their boarding house. Madame was a box attendant, and Meg a cleaning woman._

 _Yes, Christine would be joining them at the theatre as a seamstress._

She ducked her head and said nothing when the immigration officer made a joke about her getting "pricked" for a living.

It was already dark outside when Christine was finally told that she would be allowed to stay – if she caused no trouble – and was remanded to Madame Giry's custody. The poor woman had sat on a bench at Castle Clinton all day, so she could take Christine to her new home.

Madame Giry's slate-gray eyes, tight auburn bun, and severe face were a terribly pleasant sight for Christine's exhausted eyes. When Christine saw her rise from her bench – as stately as if she were still Paris' foremost prima ballerina – Christine ran straight for her, threw her arms around the austere widow, and cried into her shoulder as Christine hadn't cried since Papa Daaé had gone to Heaven.

In an uncharacteristically tender gesture, Madame Giry held her close and rubbed her aching back as Christine was wracked with sobs. She didn't even make any shushing sounds. She just let Christine cry out her relief and despair.

 _ **A/N: Yes, Erik will be in this story, but he's currently sulking somewhere else. I happen to know what he's up to right about now, and you probably don't want to be around him just yet.**_


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The ride to the Giry's flat went by in a blur. Madame Giry had hired a hansom cab – a terrible expense – because she had guessed that Christine would be exhausted. It was true, but Christine was growing tired of travel. It felt like she was constantly on the move, and she wanted nothing more than to stay in one stationary place for a few months, or years, or the rest of her life.

Staring out the window, Christine was dimly aware of tall buildings, carriages, and people bustling about. Despite her drooping eyelids, she noticed a difference in the sights and smells the further they drove away from Castle Clinton and Battery Park.

She detected the aroma of unfamiliar spices wafting her way from food carts. She saw people in Eastern dress – perhaps Chinese men and women – going about their business right alongside dark-skinned black Americans and pale Europeans, and she heard even more languages than she'd heard on her trip over – some she could identify, and some she couldn't. Italian, German, Russian, French, and English, of course, but in a lilting accent Christine had never heard before. Irish, perhaps.

The ride was soon over, having only lasted about a quarter of an hour. Out on the street, Christine hated to see Madame Giry hand over her hard-earned money for such a short trip. However, it would have taken at least an hour on foot, and Christine was convinced she wouldn't have made it. She imagined herself collapsing in the street, refusing to take a step further, and her cheeks burned with unnecessary shame. As Madame Giry greeted people she knew, Christine examined her surroundings – her new home.

The area was something of a slum dominated by tenement buildings and populated by poor immigrants – and she was now one of them. She spied clotheslines with laundry strung up between buildings. She saw many windows with broken or missing glass. A dozen or so children were playing a game in a dirty vacant lot. Christine nodded shyly at passersby, the ones who gave her any notice, anyway.

Madame Giry put an arm around her shoulder and turned her to face a particular tenement building.

"Welcome home, Christine," she whispered, looking up to the fifth floor. "Welcome to Orchard Street, and the Lower East Side."

The door to her new home was at the top of a short set of stairs and opened onto a foyer. Madame Giry went before her up a much steeper set of narrow stairs. They climbed so many stairs, Christine's young knees were beginning to creak before reaching the top floor. She couldn't see how Madame Giry, a former prima ballerina whose body was now paying for years of disciplined abuse, could do this every day.

There were three doors leading to separate flats, and Madame led her to the one farthest down the narrow hall. Madame Giry pulled out a little brass key and opened the door, ushering her inside.

They stood in a tiny kitchen with a little wood stove and cook top. A stew of some kind was bubbling in a pot. After months of hunger back in France and on the boat over, the stew smelled heavenly. Next to a window looking out onto the street sat a round, white, wooden table clearly built for two, instead of three. It was accompanied by two matching chairs and one slightly rickety brown wooden chair.

A room with an open doorway was immediately to the right. It was probably intended to be a parlor or sitting room, but half of it was blocked off by some worn out, flowery sheets strung up like curtains. The other half held an old upright piano and a writing desk, two serious luxuries in a neighborhood like this. A closed door was to Christine's left – Madame's room, no doubt. Another luxury in a neighborhood where whole families slept in one room, several to a bed if they had a bed at all.

Meg emerged from behind the makeshift curtains, squealing with delight, and threw herself at Christine, nearly sending them both to the floor. Christine didn't mind Meg's enthusiasm, no matter how dirty and tired she was after her journey. It had been a long time since she'd seen her friend – any friend at all, really – and it was good to feel welcome and wanted.

"Oh, Christine, I can't believe you're finally here," Meg exclaimed, hugging her fiercely. "We haven't seen each other in ages! And to think we're here, in America! It's been awful waiting for you to arrive, but I know it was much worse for you! The passage here can be miserable. But here, I've drawn you a nice, hot bath in our bedroom – well, maybe lukewarm by now – I expected you back an hour ago, and I didn't want to make you wait one minute. And dinner is staying warm on the stove."

Christine didn't need to answer Meg as she chattered away, taking her carpet bag and leading Christine by the hand through the curtains. She silently examined her friend, looking for any sign of change.

Meg's blonde hair remained glossy and thick, and, if anything, she had _put on_ weight, rather than lost it in their somewhat reduced circumstances. If the stew was any indication, she and Madame were eating heartier fare than they had in France.

However, she noticed that Meg's eyes were a touch less lively. Christine guessed that she and Madame were doing better for themselves than most in the neighborhood, but it was clear that cleaning a theatre in Manhattan was a far cry from the life Meg had envisioned for herself. This wasn't the life any of them – Meg, Madame, or Christine – had worked for. Back in France, they had rehearsed endlessly to perfect their arts. All three of them had suffered early mornings, long nights, bleeding feet, big breaks, setbacks, and all the agony and ecstasy inherent to the life of a performer.

She couldn't imagine who this must be harder for – Meg, who hadn't yet realized her dream of becoming prima donna, or Madame, who had to watch her daughter's dreams slip away while scrubbing floors just steps away from center stage.

What of Christine? How would it feel when she sewed costumes that other, luckier girls would get to wear?

Two twin beds had been squeezed into the room under a window, and Meg deposited all of Christine's worldly possessions at the foot of the one further away from the window. She helped Christine disrobe, and then held her arm as she climbed into a metal tub that was just big enough to sit up in. The water was tepid, and the washcloth Meg soaped up to wash her back was harsh and scratchy, but Christine was supremely grateful for the opportunity to clean up, even if the conditions were less than ideal.

Christine had been little better than a vagrant as a child, so she always counted herself lucky to have a roof over her head or a way to wash up. She had certainly had better homes, but she'd also had worse. As she took the cloth from Meg to finish washing, she determined that she would make the most of it.

Christine knew true relief when she was finally able to get out, don a borrowed dressing gown, and kneel over the tub to wash her hair. Her curls were difficult to maintain at the best of times, but weeks at sea with no hairbrush, no rosemary, no vinegar, no soap, and none of the oils that kept her curls shiny, her hair had turned into a rat's nest – perhaps, a literal one. Who knew what might have slept in it on that awful ship?

Meg helped her work out the tangles with a comb, and then lathered up her hair with the same bar of soap she had used with the washcloth. Christine had already been checked for lice at Castle Clinton, so at least she didn't have to worry about bringing pests into the house.

Finally clean, Christine sat down at the kitchen table in the odd chair while Meg dished out three bowls of stew. It had a thick, brown broth, carrots, potatoes, and a little beef. Perhaps the French cuisine she had dreamed of on the way over had been an unreasonable fantasy.

"I can't wait until you see the Bowery, Christine," Meg told her excitedly, placing a bowl before her with a spoon, and then serving herself and her mother. "It's massive, much bigger than the Salle le Peletier. It's even bigger than Monsieur Garnier's Opera House will be if its ever completed. But the works they perform aren't that good. Mostly stupid melodramas, or silly musical comedies. It's not exactly the high art we're all used to, but a lot of people around here seem to like it. The theatre is very successful. Tickets may not sell for as much as tickets to the Academy of Music, but they sell more, and the productions are cheap to produce."

Hmmm, perhaps, Meg had inherited more than just her mother's talent with the dance. Perhaps, she also had Madame's business sense…

"You'll have the day off tomorrow to rest," Madame Giry assured her, "but you'll start work the day after. As a seamstress, you will mostly work during the day from seven o'clock in the morning until six o'clock in the afternoon with a half hour for luncheon at noon, Monday through Saturday. Meg will have the same hours, so you will walk to work with her. It's only three blocks down and five blocks over. I attend to some of the boxes there during evening performances, so Meg and I see each other coming and going most days but only get to catch up on Monday nights when the theatre is dark. I spend my days on my other business."

"Matchmaking," Christine answered with a wry smile.

"I seem to have a talent for it," Madame Giry said modestly. "I've also found other ways to make myself useful to our neighbors. Helping them with their shopping while they're at work, babysitting, that sort of thing."

"What's the Academy of Music," Christine asked as she finished her first bowl. She peeked over her shoulder to see if there was more. Meg took the hint and grabbed her bowl to refill it.

"The Academy is an opera house," Madame Giry explained. "It doesn't have its own opera company but engages a few different companies to perform their seasons there. Mostly Italian operas, but perhaps you may audition for one of them. Unfortunately, ballet is not popular in America."

"Why did you come here and not Italy, like Sorelli," Christine asked between spoonfuls of stew.

Madame Giry and Meg exchanged glances that Christine found a bit peculiar. It always fascinated Christine how these two women could communicate so much without any words at all. She'd often wondered if she and her own mother would have been so alike in mind, if Astrid Daaé had lived.

"A friend of mine immigrated a few years ago," Madame Giry said carefully. "He offered us a great deal of assistance. He paid for our passage here. Our accommodations were much better than yours, though they weren't exactly luxurious. He also gave us money to pay our rent while we looked for work the first couple of months we were here. Officially, as far as the authorities were concerned, we worked for him until we found permanent employment. He offered us more help, but I hated feeling beholden to him, so I have since refused any money that I haven't earned."

"Does that mean that you _do_ earn money from him, now," Christine questioned. "Is it babysitting or matchmaking?"

"A bit of both," Meg giggled.

"Perhaps, we'll talk about it at another time," Madame Giry said lightly, but Christine recognized it for the rebuke at her prying that it was. "I'm sure you're tired and would like to sleep," she continued.

"Yes," Christine sighed gratefully. She was also interested in a third bowl of stew, but she knew she shouldn't eat too much at one time after doing so long without. She'd just make herself sick if she had more.

They returned to their makeshift bedroom, and Christine sank onto the bed Meg had assigned her. The mattress was lumpy, and the bed was hardly meant for a grown woman, but it was infinitely preferable to being wedged between two other women on the ship's bunk. It smelled much better, too. Their flat was cramped, but the Giry's kept a clean house and had taken some pains to make it comfortable for themselves, and for Christine. She settled into a deep and dreamless sleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

 **xXx**

By the time Christine woke up the next morning, Meg was already gone, but Madame Giry was sipping tea at the kitchen table and reading a newspaper written in English. Christine was even worse at _reading_ English than she was at _speaking_ it, so she wasn't sure, but she thought the headline said something about a man named Grant running for a political office. Learning more about America was a daunting task, but she supposed she would need to know these things eventually.

"I have an appointment with a nice Irish girl and her family a couple of blocks over," Madame Giry said without looking up from her newspaper. "I have to interview her and evaluate her domestic skills before I can make her a match. I'll have luncheon with them, but there is some cold meat and cheese in the icebox you can have when you are ready to eat. I should be back before Meg returns from the theatre. I suggest you spend most of the day in bed. You won't have many opportunities to do so in the future."

Christine was more than happy to return to her bed for a couple of hours. She dozed, but she couldn't quite go back to sleep. She wasn't used to idleness. As a child, she had worked – if you could call such a pleasure as singing along with her father's violin _work_ – to feed the family, and she was used to long, physically demanding rehearsals from her days at the _conservatoire_ and the Opera. Boredom quickly set in, so she got up and poked around the flat, opening cupboards in the kitchen. There wasn't much to see, so she pulled out the piano bench and played a few of the pieces she found inside.

She politely ignored Madame Giry's bedroom, and she was afraid the writing desk would be off-limits, too, given that much of the correspondence she was likely to find would be from Madame's lonely hearts. But it was awfully tempting to learn a little more about Madame Giry's new occupation.

Were her clients all looking for dull marriages based on mutual need? Or was it possible for them to find love and romance through the widowed former ballet mistress? Did they need to employ her services because it was more convenient than seeking out a mate on their own? Or were they the victims of terrible tragedies who saw no other way to fulfill their desire for companionship?

She imagined the nice Irish girl a couple of blocks over nervously pouring Madame Giry's tea and offering her homemade soda bread. The poor girl's hands were shaking as Madame fixed the girl with her steely gaze. She saw the girl looking away as she wondered if this was a good idea, after all.

Christine found herself standing in front of the writing desk with the palm of her hand pressed against the cover, as if she were attempting to absorb the contents through the wood. As if she could read the letters within with her hand, rather than her eyes. As if she could learn their stories and know their minds by reaching out to the strokes of their pens on paper.

She shook her head and pulled herself away. She would have to ask Madame Giry to tell her more later.

With nothing left to do, Christine sat at the kitchen window overlooking the street and watched the people go by. Laundresses carried big bundles to and fro. Children laughed uproariously as they chased each other. The street vendors harangued everyone else out and about, shoving packets of food under their noses. As Christine nibbled on her cold meat and cheese, she longed to go down and buy some of the strange and appetizing dishes. But she had no money and likely wouldn't have any for some time. Whatever she earned from the theatre would likely go to a few new – well, new to _her_ – dresses, her share of the rent and groceries…but that rice dish over there was _calling_ to her.

Christine imagined what it would be like to know these people, to speak the languages she heard, to walk amongst them and greet them all by name, to know what everything tasted like. She sighed as she thought of going to work tomorrow at the Bowery Theatre. At least, everything would be familiar there…

 **A/N: The Palais Garnier didn't open until 1875, three years after this chapter takes place, so Madame Giry, Meg and Christine would have performed at the Salle le Peletier, which was destroyed by a fire in 1873. The Salle le Peletier was on the Rue la Fayette and only a five-minute walk away from the Garnier.**

 **The Bowery was opened in Manhattan in 1826 as the New York Theatre by some wealthy and notable people who lived in the area, one of whom was James Alexander Hamilton, the third son of Alexander Hamilton, who literally invented Wall Street, which you probably knew from being thorough students of history. Who am I kidding, we all know that because of the Hamilton soundtrack. Who knew their family was so involved in theater even back in the day?**

 **The Bowery Theatre was supposed to compete with the Park Theatre, which was owned by the wealthy Astor family and located close to City Hall. The Park Theatre was famous for high European drama from the time it opened in 1798 to the opening of the Bowery. However, it wasn't long before both the Bowery and Park Theatres started staging the cheap melodramas and even cheaper comedies (often involving blackface) that Meg talks about.**

 **The Academy of Music was opened in 1854 and was a huge part of upper-class society until the Met opened in 1883. By 1886, the Academy of Music started playing exclusively vaudeville to survive.**

 **Fun fact, Christine and the Giry's live close to the location of what is now the Tenement Museum, which is a tenement building that has been restored to show what they were like in the 19** **th** **century. I didn't give out the address, but the exact location of their building is now a dance academy. I couldn't resist!**


	4. Chapter 3

_**A/N: What's this? An update? Who would have seen THAT coming? Certainly not me! Thank you to tasteofthebitchpudding for her support!**_

Chapter Three

Christine gasped as she took in the sheer size of the auditorium. Beside her, Madame Giry nodded once, as if to say, _Yes, Christine, my thoughts exactly. Why must the Americans make everything so large?_ Meanwhile, Meg was practically vibrating with excitement. Even as a cleaning woman, the former ballerina was thrilled to simply be in a theatre, as if the slightly musty air here had some sort of restorative powers. The three women stood at the back of the theatre, looking down the center aisle towards the stage as Christine took it all in.

It was much bigger than the Salle le Peletier, and she couldn't imagine trying to fill every seat. However, Meg and Madame had assured her that they'd seen it done several times during their tenure. The Bowery's silly comedies and cheap melodramas brought in huge crowds, even if they didn't pay much for their tickets. Meg had even taken part in one of their productions a couple of months before. It had been a sort of musical revue with several songs and dancing, and the managers had asked her to dance a little ballet. She had stood on a platform and pretended to be a ballerina in a music box. It hadn't been very complicated – just slow pirouettes _en pointe_. But she had danced on stage in front of an audience again, which is more than Christine could claim since the theatres closed in Paris.

Christine wistfully remembered seeing the Peletier's stage for the first time. She had been so young, and she had felt so small. Her shoulders trembled at the very idea of standing alone on that stage and filling the room with the notes of an aria. It was the same fear and reverence she felt when she stood before the altar in church.

Back then, she had blushed at the thought of the plush velvet seats and the wealthy patrons who would occupy them every night. As a performer, she knew she would live or die by their applause, and that was before she'd had any idea that her childhood sweetheart would eventually be among them.

Christine half listened as Madame Giry described the history of the building, the number of seats, square footage, etc. No doubt, it was all very useful information, but facts and figures told her very little about the soul of the place. If she squinted, Christine could imagine the theatre as it had been when it was new.

The seats had probably, at one time, been just as fine as the Peletier's, but now they were faded and damaged, the stuffing showing in some places and patched in others. The curtains were in a similar state, and the stage boards had no shine or luster. Evidently, they hadn't been polished in some time. It was clear to Christine that it had all been intended for the wealthier citizenry, but it now showed more than forty years of wear and neglect.

"We should go to the offices, so I can introduce you to our managers," Madame Giry said, turning to the wide double doors. Meg had other ideas, grabbing Christine's hand and dragging her down the aisle.

"Christine can't leave without seeing the view from the stage!"

"Are we allowed on the stage," Christine hissed, looking around and desperately hoping she didn't get in trouble on her first day.

"Of course, we can," Meg laughed, but the mischievous sparkle in her eyes did little to reassure her. "Who deserves to be on the stage more than the prima ballerina and the prima donna of the Paris Opera?"

Christine snorted at Meg's description of their careers. Ballet rat and chorus member would be more accurate. Still, once they had reached the end of the aisle, she had to admit that even this worn out stage held a certain mystique.

They scrambled up over the foot lights, Christine muttering that it would have been easier to enter from back stage. Meg helped her straighten up, and Christine looked out onto the same seats and boxes as before. But they were different somehow. They seemed almost enchanted from this vantage point. Christine couldn't see the faded spots or the patches. She didn't see Madame who was probably glaring at them with disapproval.

Christine paced center stage, feeling the boards creak a little under her weight. She could smell the faint scent of old wood. It was one of her absolute favorite scents – better than any of the expensive perfumes that wafted through the lobby of the Peletier. These boards felt more like home than Perros Guirec or the Giry's flat ever could.

Though Meg was hardly dressed for ballet, she did a few quick traveling turns across the stage. Perhaps she needed to remind Christine – or herself – that she could.

"What was that?" Madame Giry's voice cracked through the silence like thunder. She was coming down the center aisle with "Was that supposed to be _chaînés?_ I have never seen such poor footwork!"

"I'm not wearing the right shoes, and you know it!"

"Then perhaps, you should not dance without the proper footwear!"

"It seemed alright to me," came a voice from the side of the stage. The three women hadn't noticed him come from the shadows of the back stage to lean against the curtain rigging. He was of average height, perhaps a little on the stouter side, and had light brown hair that was graying at the temples. He looked as if he were in his forties and wore an amiable expression. "But then again, I wouldn't know that much about ballet, would I?"

"Mr. Thompson," Madame Giry called from the aisle. "This is Christine Daaé, your new seamstress." Christine's head bobbed in a nervous greeting. "We were just showing her around the theatre before she starts work. I'm afraid that my daughter got carried away in her enthusiasm."

Mr. Thompson waved her fears away and stepped forward, holding his hand out to Christine. After a moment's hesitation, Christine gripped Mr. Thompson's hand and then quickly let go.

"Christine, this is Mr. Alfred Thompson, one of our managers," Madame Giry introduced.

"I handle the business side of things," Mr. Thompson explained, noticeably looking her up and down. She didn't feel that there was any…unwanted attention in his gaze. It was more of a measuring up, as if he was wondering if the pale former opera singer in front of him, whose frame didn't entirely fill out her old dress, was ready to take on the job. "Martin is the _Artistic_ Manager," he said archly, as if there was nothing artistic about Martin at all. "You'll probably meet him when he tumbles in later in the morning."

"Meg, Christine, come down at once," Madame Giry said. Christine hurried to jump back down into the aisle. Meg followed somewhat ruefully. "Christine has much to learn about the theatre and very little time."

Christine stuck close to Madame Giry as they made their way through the maze that was the back stage of the theatre. Meg trailed behind them, greeting people along the way, some in French, others in English, still others in Italian or German. The little blonde dancer seemed quite popular, at least with the denizens of the back stage.

Christine rather envied Meg's ability to charm. Meg had grown up in the theatre and had never lacked company. Her father, the late Monsieur Giry had been a danseur, and then a choreographer, and her mother had, of course, become the ballet mistress after retiring as the prima ballerina. Christine, meanwhile, had grown up with hardly anyone but her Papa to talk to, rarely having the chance to really get to know anyone until Professor and Mamma Valerius came along. She still felt a little shy and awkward around strangers, even after crossing the ocean with a ship full of them.

Christine met so many new people, she doubted she'd ever learn everyone's names and jobs, even if she worked here for the rest of her life. However, after being introduced to the head seamstress, she doubted she would ever forget her.

Augusta Heller was a robust woman in her mid-fifties who seemed to have taken on a permanent squint from years of peering at her needle and thread in dim light. Her golden blonde and silvery gray hair was bound tightly in a braided bun, and when Madame opened the door of the costume room, Frau Heller's drab brown dress and cream apron were in almost comical contrast with the lacy bright pink frock she was holding.

Frau Heller was carefully sewing maroon trim onto the bodice. The dress looked a few seasons old, clearly an outmoded garment that the head seamstress was updating to appear more fashionable, rather than go to the trouble and expense of buying new fabric and making a dress from scratch. Christine briefly wondered if this dress had started its useful life as a costume piece, or if had been discarded by a debutante and picked up secondhand.

Christine's eyes darted around the room and realized that there were no other seamstresses in sight.

" _Komm her_ ," Frau Heller grunted from her sewing table. Christine hastily complied while Madame Giry kept her place by the door.

Frau Heller carefully laid the dress out on the table, making sure not to crease it or pull any of her stitches. She held out both of her hands, palm up. Christine just looked at them, not sure what Frau Heller wanted her to do.

" _Hände_!"

Christine jumped at the impatient command and pushed both of her hands into Frau Heller's. She jerked them closer to her face, turning them over a couple of times and examining them closely. She made approving noises.

" _Klein._ Small," Frau Heller declared, letting go of them. "Hard work. Will do."

Christine wasn't sure if that meant she could see that Christine's hands were no longer strangers to hard work, as they had been in Paris, or if she was warning her that her hands and hard work would shortly be introduced. Perhaps a bit of both.

Madame Giry gave her a slightly softer look than usual – perhaps out of pity that Christine was clearly the only person working under Frau Heller to costume this theatrical company – and exited the room.

Frau Heller wasted no time in putting Christine to work, giving her needles, thread, and several costumes that had been pinned and were ready to be hemmed. There were four men's jackets pinned at the sleeves, six pairs of trousers, and two dresses.

Christine did some quick arithmetic in her head. This company mounted a new production approximately once every three weeks – primarily musical revues and other such "sketch" productions with three or four melodramas mixed in every year. She thought there were about fifteen to twenty performers in the revues, maybe ten in the melodramas. That was about sixteen productions, since they had a few weeks off throughout the year. It came to more than two hundred costumes a year, assuming there were no repeated costumes.

She looked at Frau Heller's bent back and hoped fervently that they reused costumes frequently.

 **xXx**

Two jackets and three pairs of trousers later, Mr. Thompson pushed open their door, followed by another man, who appeared to be walking rather unsteadily. Even the dim light of their oil lamps seemed to be too much for him. He was taller and thinner than Mr. Thompson and seemed a little green about the face. Christine strongly suspected that heavy drinking the night before was the likely culprit. She had never had a hangover before, but she'd seen enough of them to read the signs.

"Ms…Day, was it?"

"Daaé, sir, Christine Daaé," she corrected, springing to her feet.

"How about we just call you Ms. Christine – that's something everybody around here ought to be able to manage," Mr. Thompson continued. "Ms. Christine, this is Martin Wilson, our Artistic Director."

"Ms. Christine," he nodded. He gave her the once over, just as Mr. Thompson had earlier, but there was something more appraising in Mr. Wilson's gaze. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and held her hands stiffly behind her back.

"Martin and I have some matters to discuss," Mr. Thompson said a bit tightly, "but we wanted to make sure you were feeling right at home."

"I'm always at home in a theatre, sir," Christine assured him with a quick smile.

"We'll let you get back to work, Frau Heller, Ms. Christine. We'll see you around."

"Yes, I certainly hope we do," Mr. Wilson said, as they turned to go, giving her an odd look.

Christine sat down at the table across from Frau Heller, who was shaking her head. "Belästigung," she muttered.

Christine had heard several women on the ship mutter this same word many times. Trouble. Harassment. Molestation.

 _ **A/N: I've also cleaned up my previous chapters a little and reposted. It's the perfectionist in me. I can't imagine publishing hard copies of anything I write because then I couldn't revise anymore!**_

 _ **Apologies if I got any of the German wrong. I didn't think I could do too poorly with a few short phrases.**_


End file.
